The Mech Who Loved Me (London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy #2)(8)

"What is it?" Ava asked, trying to peer over his shoulder.

She took a step toward the noise—which matched the address of their crime scene—and he suddenly realized what was happening.

"Bloody cravers! Taking our blood! Our jobs!"

Something smashed around the corner from them.

Flames whooshed, as though oil or something flammable was thrown on a small fire, its orange glow licking over the rooftops ahead of him. Kincaid took a step back, nerves firing to life down his spine. Shit.

"Take back what's ours!"

"Should've killed them all!"

Somewhere ahead of them glass sprayed with a tinkling sound across cobbles. A cheer went up and it sounded as though a dozen men slipped their leashes, their excitement tumbling all over the crowd as they egged each other on.

He'd heard that sound before. Trouble.

"Stay here," he urged, shoving Ava into a nearby alley. "Have you got a pistol? Or a weapon?"

Ava flourished her parasol. He'd seen some of her defensive designs in action, and knew that hidden within the lace was a shield, and possibly worse. The last one she'd designed had a hidden bayonet at the tip she could trigger with a twitch of her finger. "Not a weapon, precisely, but it will do. What are you doing?"

"Let me check it out first." He could feel the blood rushing through his veins, preparing him to fight—or flee. "It sounds like a riot's about to happen."

"A riot?" She'd know what that meant just as much as he did—once upon a time it had been the only weapon the human classes and mechs had owned against the powerful aristocratic Echelon.

"Just keep your head down. It's not as though the Echelon sends out its Trojan cavalry to crush a mob anymore." Once upon a time, the automaton cavalry rampaged through the streets upon the Echelon's bidding, crushing any and all who stood in their path. You'd hear the horns blaring, and it would be every man for himself as he fought to clear the streets. Those days were long gone, thank all the gods. "I'll be back before you know it."

"You can't go by yourself," she protested.

"Ava." Kincaid looked down at the small hand on his sleeve. "I'm human. You're not. And from the sounds of it, you're precisely what this mob wants to get its hands on." He could still hear them bellowing about “death to the cravers.” "Stay here, and keep out of the way. I'll be back shortly. I need to see how big this is getting, and where it's spreading."

As she let him go, he strode through the crowd that was gathering. Some fled—the more sensible perhaps. But others seemed drawn to the vortex of violence ahead of him, as though hungry to see what was happening.

How many years of peace had there been since the last time London went up in flames? Once, a riot was the only thing the corrupt prince consort and his Council of Dukes feared. But ever since humans reclaimed their rights to live freely, there'd been only one riot, and that had ended when the queen made a plea for clemency.

Kincaid shoved his way through the growing spectators. He and Ava had a crime scene to investigate, but he certainly wasn't bringing her to the address until he knew what lay in wait for them. This wasn't his first riot. He'd grown up in streets like this, and had brought ruin to dozens of blue blood businesses and houses in his time—back when they were the monsters everyone feared, and there was no other recourse for people like him.

"Down with the cravers!" someone screamed, and a queer sort of shiver went through him.

Those words had been in his mouth many a time. The feeling of rage ignited along his skin, taking him back into the past, when he'd stood at the head of a mob like this. Emotion would be contagious, and he felt it stirring within him even though he worked on the other side now.

A thousand slights against him. Watching those he loved die at the hands of blue bloods. Working his fingers to the bone just to get a fucking scrap of something out of life.

"Serves them right!" another shout echoed. "All blue bloods should die!"

Once upon a time he might have shared the same sentiment. He'd spent years in the blistering heat of the mech enclaves, his freedom sold to the blue bloods who ran them in exchange for the mechanical hand they'd fitted him with. His mech debt—the years of service he owed for the hand—stretched to fifteen years, and until the revolution started brewing, he'd despaired of ever tasting freedom again.

And then he'd been asked to join the Company of Rogues, which was formed almost solely of blue bloods. The hatred hadn't died; it still smoldered in his gut, even though he considered some of the other Rogues to be allies, perhaps even friends.

But it was Ava who'd forced him to rethink his position all blue bloods should be guillotined, like the French had done to their blue blood aristocracy. Ava, with her big green eyes, her revulsion for blood, and the way her cheeks burned whenever he flirted with her, or made a crude joke. Ava was a kitten, not a predator, no matter what virus ran through her blood.

And if she could be innocent, despite her affliction, then how could he categorize the rest of them? He didn't entirely know what to think anymore. And it fucking bothered him sometimes.

"Burn them!"

Ahead of him he could see the crime scene address, and the Nighthawks standing in a sharp line in front of the building, nervously trying to hold the crowd at bay. Kincaid didn't even know why he'd come. He’d taken the measure of the crowd already—this was going to turn violent.